


Newborn

by awhitehart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awhitehart/pseuds/awhitehart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane experiences the birth of his first child with Sansa Stark. Angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Newborn

The room was dark and the air smelled faintly metallic. A fire had been lit in the stone hearth, causing the air to hang heavy and thick. _Blood_ , Sandor Clegane sniffed the air as he stood in the doorway, eyes scanning the dimly lit room for his wife. It was a smell he knew all too well; it was the smell of war. But this was a battle his wife was waging all on her own and there was nothing he could do to help her. A tense rage coursed through his veins and fear churned in his belly. He felt sick. Gods, the room was sweltering.

 

Sansa Stark lay in a great four poster bed. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and a thin cotton shift over her very pregnant body. She had been in labour since the early afternoon and it was now well past midnight. Her belly was a large rounded mound under the sweaty fabric and her bare legs were splayed out in front of her. There were smears of blood on her exposed thighs. Sansa’s face was drained of colour, her eyes closed in concentration, and she was panting. Her long auburn braid was in a disarray and strands stuck to her fevered face and neck. She’d been screaming. Sandor had heard the sound from the courtyard and run up the stone steps before barging through the door.

 

“Sansa? _Sansa_.” In one long stride he was kneeling by her side. He took her arm in one hand and placed the palm of his other hand over the side of her face. Her skin was clammy and felt afire to the touch. She did not open her eyes. He shook her hand, not ungently. Panic threatened in his chest. “Look at me. Look at me!” he thundered. Sansa’s eyes opened and, with a gaze and smile that open and closed as briefly as a sigh, she breathed his name. The lids rolled back over her eyes and she did not look at him again. She’d stopped panting and was now breathing softly, sleeping. He squeezed her limp hand.

 

“It is improper for men folk to be present,” a thin, harsh voice stated bluntly behind him.

 

Sandor stood and spun round. A small and ancient septa stood before him, her eyes hard and disapproving. He towered over her tiny frame. In her thin, veined hands, she held a bloody linen. Sandor swallowed.

 

Another body shifted in the shadows behind the septa. Sandor squinted and saw it was one of Sansa’s younger maids. He knew the girl, she was hardworking, but she was a meek sort and of no use to him at present. The girl was holding a bowl of water. Head bowed, as though ducking enemy arrows, the girl scuttled to kneel by Sansa and gingerly wiped at her face and neck with a damp cloth.

 

Sandor returned his attention to the old crone. “If you think -” he started, but, the septa cut his speech, shaking the blood-soaked linen at him, “It’s not proper, I said. And besides, you’re naught but a waste of space! Go elsewhere and occupy yourself. A babe will be delivered to you soon - I’ve been at this work longer than you’ve been alive, Sprout, and know these things well - but I’ll not have you stay here distracting the lady and getting in my way.” Sandor was stunned into silence. Sprout? He turned towards the door to leave. He’d been called many things in life, but never that. Was the woman mad? Had this ancient little woman lost her wits?

 

But his shock was soon replaced by familiar fury, fury directed at the decrepit little woman, he barged past her and in a few long stomping steps was at the window. His leg ached horribly. A dull throb was threatening at the nape of his neck. Sandor grasped the latch and threw it open, the door frame resounding with a threatening crack as it hit against the stone wall. Cool night air of early spring poured in from the window and dissipated some of the room’s oppressive air.

 

Sandor spun on his heels and towered over the small crone, pointing a finger down at her face. “On your life, this window stays open,” he thundered. It took all his strength to contain himself, to keep his rage from boiling over.

 

The elderly woman seemed nonplussed at his outburst, but agreed to his stipulation with a barely perceptible nod of her head. “If that is was milord wishes.” Sandor swore he saw the hint of a smirk cross the old crone’s face.

 

That the great and beloved lady Sansa Stark had married her master at arms had not been a fact well received by great and small folk alike. Though some had become accustomed to the match, most still resented the union and felt that the groom was unworthy to call himself husband to the North’s beloved Lady Stark.

 

“Yes. It is was what milord bloody well pleases,” he snarled on his way out. His hands moved to slam the door, but the thought of his lady wife stilled his hand and he skulked off from the warmth of the room into the frigid hall.

 

-

Sandor stomped his way down the hallway from the bedchamber towards the servants quarters and pounded a fist on one of the first doors at the top of the hall. A woman about his own age, with long chestnut hair and serious eyes of the same colour, answered the door, lit taper in hand. She was fully dressed, despite the early hour and seemed bleary eyed. Sandor was in no mood for pleasantries.

 

“Why aren’t you with your mistress?” Sandor glowered, not giving the woman time to speak. The woman was named Jeyne and Sansa’s lady’s maid. Jeyne was usually very attentive to her every mistress's needs. Since learning of the pregnancy, Sandor and Jeyne had come to words a few times over their own differences in opinions where Sansa’s needs were concerned.

 

The woman sighed, “I was there in the beginning, but that woman did not agree with some of my suggestions and she cast me out.” She paused and her face gave him a guilty look, “I did not wish to create a fuss and upset my lady, nor did I wish to upset you with a disagreement between women. I’ll admit there are few more knowledgeable in the north than the septa in matters of birthing.”

 

Sandor had pointed towards the room’s general direction, “Go and tend to your lady. If that old bag of dust and bones gives you cheek, tell her I will return and give her cause for concern.” Sandor lowered his voice and shoulders a bit, “I need someone there that loves our lady as much as - just go, damn you!” He turned his gaze away to take a breath and as he turned back to face Jeyne, he saw that she wore a thin-lipped smile of approval. Nodding her head determinedly, she’d said, “It’ll be my pleasure, Ser,” and she was gone in a flurry of skirts.

 

Knowing that Jeyne had returned to Sansa’s side had settled the churning in his stomach a bit, but it had not lessened pressure in his chest. He felt like a man on fire.

 

Now back outside, he was grateful for the fresh air, though the dull ache at the top of his neck had now escalated to a pounding in his skull. The pain in his leg only accentuated his limp as he walked. He’d given up the drink long ago and therefore needed distracting elsewhere.

 

The castle was quiet but not many of its occupants slept; the silence was tense with anticipation. In a few hours, servants would begin their early morning routines. Sandor could already smell baking bread coming from the kitchens. The time Sandor had spent on the Quiet Isles had fostered in him an appreciation for silence, which meant that all the castle’s daytime noises often grinded away at him. Tonight, he resented the stillness. He needed distracting.

 

Sandor walked for a time throughout the halls and climbed a staircase and passed through a doorway. Atop the parapets, he could see well off into the distance as the moon and stars shone brightly.

 

An awkward cough sounded from the shadows and three figures stepped out from the stairway leading off the parapets. The night was clear and so the light of the moon shone brightly, revealing the faces of the three figures. Three of Winterfell’s men at arms stood there, clad in light armour, swords sheathed on their belts. Two of them were twins, sons of a neighbouring lord pledged to house Stark. They were barely sixteen, handsome, cocksure, and had yet to know war. The third man was older than Sandor and a knight. Ambrose Addar had fought in the Wars of Winter.

 

They hovered there, hesitating a moment before Addar took a step forward and said, “The night is calm, the castle is secure, but maybe you’d like to join our watch?” Sandor was grateful the man wasn’t daft enough to ask how he was doing.

 

Sandor nodded and joined them. The twins walked ahead of them and Sandor walked next to Addar. They walked slowly for a time atop the parapets, looking over the grounds surrounding Winterfell. The night was so still that they could hear the soft sound of their boots hitting the stone. Sandor knew the men, the twins especially, were only silent because of him. So much the better, he thought. Sandor was in no mood for chatter. After a time, they all stopped to gaze north beyond the curtain wall upon which they stood. A stiff breeze rose from the North, flew across the dense forests, bringing with it the clean smells of pine and snow.

 

The twins were whispering in hurried tones to one another. One of them prodded his brother with an elbow to the ribs. Ask him, Sandor heard.

 

Sandor couldn’t stand nervous, twitching types. Or whispering, for that matter.

 

“Well, out with it boys. Speak your mind or be damned.”

 

The twins both looked to Addar, who nodded his approval, before speaking.

 

“Well, m’lord,” one of them said, “we were wondering if you would show us how you fought wights during the Wars of Winter.” The boy straightened his back and gripped a hand on the pommel of his sword. “You could teach us things.” The boy’s twin nodded eagerly, in a mirror image of his brother.

 

Children of summer, Sandor thought. And at that, in an instant, all the anger and frustration was replaced by fatigue and longing for his wife. His shoulders slumped and his leg ached something fierce.

 

“I shall some time, but not tonight.” Sandor gestured towards Sansa’s chamber window. He longed for his wife. He wanted nothing more than have his wife dozing on his shoulder under the blankets and furs of their bed, to smell the rosemary and honey smells of her hair. As the baby had grown, Sansa had not slept very well, and so he’d worked at the muscles of her back to help her fall asleep. Whenever he did this, Sansa loved teasing him about how the once-great warrior was now playing nursemaid to a pregnant woman. _I’ll have to let the kingdom know you are a kind man_ , she’d tease, grinning at him from under her eyelashes. _People will begin seeking you out as a friend, you know_. She revelled in seeing his discomfort at the idea. The firelight would glint off of her hair and his heart would always feel as though it grew too big for his chest. _You talk too much, woman_ , he’d counter with a grown and he’d drape one arm over her to bring her down into the bed with him. On the nights the baby kicked too much, they’d stay up late into the night, talking and teasing each other. Rarely did they speak of the past; too many monsters lurked within the shadows there. The future was the prospect they preferred to look upon. _To the old gods and the new_ , he begged, looking up at the night sky, _let her be safe_. Sandor could not imagine a world without his wife. A cold wind made him shudder.

 

Addar smirked and clapped a hand onto Sandor’s shoulder and shook the shoulder in a friendly manner. “Aye,” said the older man, “a new adventure starts for this man tonight. You boys will have to wait. Off with ye then, m’lord. Your lady waits.”

 

Sandor nodded to the three men, grateful for the chance to leave. At my age I thought I’d be done with adventures, Sandor thought to himself, as he walked towards Sansa’s room, trying to hide his limp while still in sight of the men.

 

\---

 

“M’lord?” The voice was soft. A single finger prodded his shoulder. Sandor snorted, he’d fallen asleep sitting in the hall outside Sansa’s room. He’d found no rest in sleep. The darkness had been full of inky, shapeless beings with sharp teeth and claws.  Sandor looked up and saw Jeyne standing there above him. She gestured him to follow, opening the door. She said nothing and her face revealed nothing. Sandor felt he might be sick again. Let her be safe.

 

The room felt more comfortable than when he’d left last and as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room he felt his heart fall into his stomach. Sansa lay in her bed, eyes bleary and braid a mess, but looking like the cat who’d got the cream. Thank the heavens, Sandor thought. In her elegant arms she held a bundle of blankets to her chest. With one of her slender fingers she gestured for Sandor  towards her. As gently as his hulking figure would allow, he lowered himself to sit on the bed beside his wife. Sansa presented the bundle to him and said, grinning coyly, “Your daughter, sir.”

 

The bundle squirmed in his arms and he looked down on the little creature his lady wife and he had made together. He’d been so busy worrying about Sansa that he’d nearly forgotten what the whole thing was about. She had a plump round face, rosy cheeks and downy auburn hair. The baby squirmed again and a little arm protruded from the bundle. Her little fingers were clenched in a fist. He sensed the baby was about to cry and he felt afraid. Sandor nearly laughed to think he’d fought his whole life, had mocked Death with a bloodied sword yet here he was afraid that this tiny baby in his arms threatened to cry.

 

Sansa sensed her daughter’s mood and pet the babe’s dark downy hair delicately. “Now then, don’t scare your father. We’re all new to this too, you know,” she crooned, smiling up at Sandor. The baby grimaced, extended her arm, and settled, but not before flashing her eyes open. Her eyes were grey. Clegane grey.

 

“Seven save me,” he rasped. His face felt hot and tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. “Sansa - I - “ he could say no more.

 

Sansa smiled and placed both hands on his face. Only the unburnt side felt the strength and warmth of her fingers. Sansa’s gaze was direct. To him, in that moment, she seemed incandescent. “I know,” she whispered, “ well done, Clegane.”

 

And so Sandor sat there beside his wife, holding his daughter and knowing finally, for certain, that the name Clegane was not accursed to blood and misery after all.


End file.
